100 From 1977-2003

Frontman Lee Mavers has since dismissed his ex-band’s output as pure rubbish, but time and memory have only proven the eccentric La’s lead wrong. Fizzling out quietly after a run that barely started, the La’s put out one album in their short career, an eponymous full-length that was a critical success and a minor commercial hit. The flagship of that fondly remembered work, “There She Goes” lovingly exhumed the ghosts of Liverpool’s rock past, even as it anticipated (along with the Stone Roses) the coming ascension of Britpop. The elements of Merseybeat immortality are here: the chiming guitars, the effortlessly catchy hooks, the sunny simplicity. So good that it inspired — and survived — a remake by Sixpence None the Richer (and an earlier, better one by the Boo Radleys), the song is so pleasurable it’s easy to dismiss. Mavers did, but history knows better.
      — Elbert Ventura

From 1986 to 2000, the Beastie Boys just may have been the most popular band on the planet. Marking their arrival with sampled Led Zepplin riffs, lewd lyrics, and a stage show that featured a giant inflatable dildo and strippers in cages, the Beastie Boys turned the music world on its head. Licensed to Ill was a rare record that appealed to both inner-city kids and suburban mall rats, skateboarders and jocks, Punk rockers and hip-hoppers. The Beasties were drunk, disrespectful, and hell-bent on destroying all figures of authority. While they would eventually recant for their treatment of women, embrace Buddhism and re-introduce the world to Bruce Lee, ’70s nostalgia and mind bending beats, the song that put them on the map was “Fight for Your Right”. It was the anthem for disenfranchised youths to embrace their slacker-dom, and snotty attitudes and unleash them on adults everywhere. Parents, teachers, and uptight nerds all found themselves in the crosshairs of the Beasties. “Fight for Your Right” is not just one of many reasons posters of the Beastie Boys still adorn bedroom and dorm walls everywhere, it’s the biggest.
      — Adam Dlugacz

For the most part, protest music in the ’80s was relegated to the genres of alternative and dance music (Midnight Oil’s Beds are Burning, Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Two Tribes). The release of Fast Car not only made Chapman a star, it put protest music back in the genre of folk music with which it was so closely associated in the ’60s. The song, along with many others on Chapman’s debut album, was a clear indictment of Reagan’s failed economic policies, as a young woman laments her lot in life — dead-end job, life in a shelter, unmotivated lover — her one dream being to escape to a better life in her lover’s fast car. The simplicity of the song in a time when many were just discovering the wonders of synthesizers and techno made it a stand-out, while the purity of Chapman’s voice gave this Grammy winning song soul.
      — Michael Abernethy

She was, they said, a fast machine, and one who reportedly kept her motor clean; indeed, some were heard to say that she was … and I don’t feel as though I’m telling tales out of school here … “the best damn woman I had ever seen.” There were also rumblings about her ability to knock out individuals with her “American thighs”, but I don’t have any first-hand confirmation on that. (Veruca Salt might be able to confirm it, though.) So what else is there to be said about “You Shook Me All Night Long”, really? It’s a song that’s stuffed with as much big, dumb fun as can possibly fit into three minutes and twenty-eight seconds … and no matter how many times it’s been played on the radio, no matter how many times it’s been sung badly in karaoke bars, there’s still something about it that forever shines through as a simultaneous testimony not only to the power of rock and roll but to how one can find killer pop hooks in the unlikeliest of places. That, and I giggle like a schoolgirl every time Brian Johnson sings, “She told me to come / But I was already there”. Simply put, a rock anthem.
      — Will Harris

“Hand in Glove” may have been the Smiths first single, but “This Charming Man” will always best represent their inauguration into the canon of rock and roll. Boasting one of the most inventive and fascinating opening guitar phrases ever written, “This Charming Man” brazenly and beautifully announced the arrival of yet another Manchester band that would leave an indelible mark of its own on the history of British pop music. Johnny Marr’s improbably lithe guitar, Steven Joyce’s insistent drums and Andy Rourke’s deceptively simple bass stand quite well on their own. But it’s the deep-throated, forlorn voice of Morrissey that brings it all together when he weepingly croons “Punctured bicycle on a hillside desolate, will nature make a man of me yet?” On “This Charming Man”, it truly sounds as if the Moz believes himself to be all alone in the cruel world. Thanks to his solipsistic conviction, legions of sexually confused and socially awkward kids had found a new voice — one with a wondrously inventive soundtrack behind it.
      — Matt Gonzales

Had things gone differently, perhaps we’d be discussing “Mermaid Smiles” here today instead of Andy Partridge’s three-minute treatise of the non-existence of every good Christian’s favorite deity … but probably not. When Skylarking was released in 1986, “Dear God” wasn’t on it; the song had been relegated to the B-side of the “Grass” single. When radio discovered the tune, however, the album was quickly reissued to include the song. Bye-bye, “Mermaid Smiles”. With “Dear God”, Partridge neatly summarized his religious philosophy, resulting in instant notoriety for XTC and an albatross Andy still sports today. If John Lennon freaked people out by suggesting the Beatles were “bigger than Jesus”, imagine how ecstatic folks were to hear Partridge sneering, “I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell / No saints, no sinners, no devil as well / No pearly gates, no thorny crown / You’re always letting us humans down”. As the song closes, its last line is far from revelatory, given the preceding lyrics, but it’s no less shocking for that: “If there’s one thing I don’t believe in, it’s you, dear God”. “Dear God” isn’t the best song on Skylarking, but, even 17 years down the line, it remains the most powerful.
      — Will Harris

“No one seems to get this, but “Black Hole Sun” is sad. But because the melody is really pretty, everyone thinks it’s almost chipper, which is ridiculous.” With this statement, Chris Cornell captures the contradiction inherent in the best psychedelic tune to come along since Pink Floyd traveled to the nether regions of the moon. With lyrics like “Boiling heat / Summer stench / ‘Neath the black the sky looks dead”, it’s tough to assign the word “chipper” as the synonym for this song. But the Beatles-esque melody of the verse floats through the ether in a way that expands the space in your head tenfold. The guitars circle each other like water funneling down a rusted drain, while the drums pound reality through the hypnotic texture. In the end, both Cornell and the more “chipper” ones have it right. “Black Hole Sun” is very much like the sun itself: It shines while it burns.
      — Tim Slowikowski

Rock has gone hand-in-hand with feelings of anger, isolation, depression, and confusion right from the start, but Mission of Burma and their early ’80s post-punk compadres (Gang of Four, the Embarassment) crystallized those feelings of discontent within tightly compressed yet still melodic rock songs. “That’s When I Reach for My Revolver” rages as wildly as the group’s punk-rock predecessors, yet contains that rage within a foundation built on crisp guitar lines and forceful drums that are as in-step as a well-oiled machine yet still loud and rambunctious. They added well-honed chops and a sense of dynamics to punk rock, helping craft the style of rock that’s dominated the last two decades. It’s easy to trace Mission of Burma’s sound through the history of so-called “alternative rock,” from Husker Du to Nirvana.
      — Dave Heaton

Oasis’s “Wonderwall” is all about context, a specific time and place. “Wonderwall” can best be understood as the apex of the era known as Britpop, when British bands actually flaunted their British-ness. Yet somewhat ironically, “Wonderwall” far transcended its intended audience, even striking a chord in America — something that had eluded almost every other act. (Blur had to name-check Pavement before the States took notice.) It’s hard to say that “Wonderwall” is important in the conventional sense of the term. It didn’t break any new ground or herald a new style; rather, its importance lies in its simplicity. One listen and that hook was permanently lodged in the memory bank. Added bonus points for turning a perfectly absurd term into a rallying cry for a new generation.
      — Jon Garrett

“Transmission”, trapped in sound, writhing in hope and despair, between life and death, is not so much a song as it is a dark abyss that slashed a glistening black gash on the face of popular music. As Joy Division continues to inspire thousands posturing as post-punk aficionados more than 20 years after their postmortem point, it’s mind-blowing that this track still stands as the future and forebearer of all things post-punk. More than two decades after its three and a half minutes were first put to tape, it is still unmatched and untouched in sonic texture, depth and quality. The track epitomizes the abilities of both Joy Division and their crazed genius of a producer, Martin Hannett, who swathes “Transmission” in his perfected form of digital delay, creating an icy and crystalline sheen over Joy Division’s suffocating despondency and claustrophobic emotion. As Ian Curtis scatters the song with his legendary disheartened stammer, the rhythms of Peter Hook and Stephen Morris carve deep grooves into the song’s (and your own) soul. “Transmission” soars and swirls in its torrid atmospheres when exactly half way through the track Bernard Sumner slices the song in two with a guitar figure that explodes with volume, piercing the terror that further resides in Curtis’s vocals. This is the sound of punk accelerating so far past itself that it will sound just as relevant and revolutionary tomorrow as it does today.
      — Ryan Potts